Sudermann had prised this unique set of volumes from the hands of the reclusive Spanish nobleman, Count Fuentes de la Frontera. On his own admission, he had almost been too late. A learned Scotsman, an emissary from Strange’s hated rival Lord Jocelyn Peto, second son of the Marquess of Millchester had arrived on the same morning. Sudermann had won the day, and Count Fuentes had accepted £5000 in sovereigns. Without demur, Sir Hamo had reimbursed him by means of a personal cheque drawn on Hoare & Company of London.
‘The carriage is at the door, sir.’
‘What? Thank you, Curteis. I will be down directly.’
The Polyglot Bible…. He had arranged for a young scholar from Cambridge to come up to Town and verify the provenance and authenticity of the work. Perhaps he should invite Lord Jocelyn Peto to view it? That would be an amusing revenge for Peto’s attempt to thwart him in Spain. Peto’s collection of old books and antiquities was of considerable worth, but he was not going to have the satisfaction of crowning its fame with the 1519 Bible.
Sir Hamo recalled himself to the present, and hurried down to the side entrance, where Johnson, his valet, was waiting to attire him for the short journey to the Bank of England.
‘It’s very good of you, Sir Hamo, to come down here to Threadneedle Street this morning. I know that you have many calls upon your time.’
The Governor of the Bank of England looked at Sir Hamo Strange, and thought: even a light breeze could blow him away. It’s a wonder his bones don’t creak as he walks. And yet, this man can sway the destinies of millions….
‘Not at all, Governor. As you know, I am always at your disposal.’
Despite his international reputation as ‘the moneylender to kings and princes’, Sir Hamo Strange always felt a special glow of satisfaction when summoned to Sir John Soan’s imposing Roman-Corinthian edifice from which, to a great extent, all the commercial affairs of England were regulated. It comprised a vast complex of over 200 offices, covering, so he’d been told, an area of 124,000 square feet.
The Bank was staffed by over a thousand gentlemen clerks, and it was a bevy of these frock-coated denizens who had conducted Sir Hamo to the board room, where the Governor, Deputy-Governor, the Chief Cashier, and all twenty-four directors, had assembled to greet him.
‘The crux of the matter, Sir Hamo,’ the Governor was saying, ‘is this. The Swedish Government, or rather their finance minister, has an urgent need this year to strengthen the holdings of the Royal Scandinavian Bank, consequent on the fall in value of the krona, and, of course, because of the loan that they were obliged under treaty to grant in January to the Polish Land Federation.’
Sir Hamo permitted himself a thin smile. They were telling him things he already knew.
‘So the Royal Scandinavian Bank’s vaults are empty, are they? How much do they want, Governor?’
‘They want four million pounds in gold. If we won’t give it to them, they’ll ask the Bank of France—’
‘No, no! That will never do, as you well know. The Government would look very sourly on any attempt to sit back and let the French forge an alliance of obligation with any of the Nordic countries. If you did that, Germany would want to know why. They’d interpret it as a signal to France and Denmark that they could do as they wished over the matter of Schleswig-Holstein – come, gentlemen, you know all this without my having to lecture you. So why have you sent for me?’
The powerful, almost hectoring voice carried to every corner of the palatial chamber. The directors were all attention. It did not do to miss a single word of the sere and paper-thin financier sitting in front of them.
The Governor sighed. What was the point of playing the fool with this man?
‘We are, of course, talking about the immediate transfer of bullion, Sir Hamo,’ he said. ‘There’s no question of promissory notes and Treasury mandates here. And if not bullion, then gold coins. Four million pounds. Now, we – the Bank of England – don’t want to part with that much gold. Not this year. So we’ve asked you to help us out of our difficulty. Can you establish a consortium of private bankers who are still licensed to keep stores of bullion? Or who can lay their hands on gold from other sources? You obliged us before, you’ll remember, in 1886, and again in 1890, at the time of the Baring Crisis.’
Sir Hamo Strange chuckled, and undid the straps of his document case.
‘By pure coincidence, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I was in Stockholm this last week. Indeed, I only returned to London this Saturday gone. While in Sweden I met – purely by chance – the deputy finance minister, Count Olafsson. He hinted that something like this was in the wind, so I came prepared today. Gentlemen, I have already pencilled in on this sheet of paper the potential members of such a consortium. I can undertake to guarantee their co-operation.’
‘We are much obliged to you, Sir Hamo—’
‘Four million in gold is a lot of money at short notice, but I will myself put in one million, currently lodged in my vaults at Carmelite Pavement – no, don’t thank me; it’s a matter of duty as well as a source of ultimate profit when the loan falls in! I have suggested another five names, all of whom will be familiar to you. I will approach each of them personally and ask for six hundred thousand. N.M. Rothschild is one, of course, and so is Abraham Goldsmith – I know for certain that those two will oblige.’
There was a sage nodding of heads and murmurs of approbation from the assembled directors.
‘And finally, I would suggest three very thriving concerns which I need only to ask: Brown’s of Lothbury, Thomas Weinstock & Sons, and Peto’s Bank. Their contributions would be in uncirculated sovereigns, which they hold as guarantee against their paper. Give me your sanction, gentlemen, and you shall have your four million pounds in gold before the week is out!’
There was a further low sound of approval from the assembled directors. Really, thought the Governor, this man Strange is truly a giant of commerce. What brilliant foresight he had shown in anticipating their needs, and what generosity in immediately supplying them! But then, he, and the likes of Lord Jocelyn Peto, had daily access to vast quantities of gold – it was the familiar stuff of their daily commerce. Men like Deloitte, the accountant, or for that matter the Bank of England’s own Chief Cashier, handled unimaginable sums of money daily; but they were sums imagined on paper, and manipulated with the aid of all the abstract skills of accountancy. But Sir Hamo Strange and his like dealt in real gold coin and real gold bullion: they were the Gold Masters….
‘I’m sure I speak for the Deputy Governor as well as for myself,’ said the Governor, ‘when I offer you my sincere thanks for your agreeing so readily to our request for help. We will not need to move the gold physically until the twenty-eighth of this month, which will give you ample time to convene the members of your consortium, and for us to put in place the necessary security measures.’
‘It is my pleasure, as always, Governor,’ said Sir Hamo Strange, ‘to be of service to the Bank of England. I will put the process in train immediately, by walking down to St Swithin’s Lane and calling on the Rothschilds at New Court.’
‘Sergeant Knollys,’ said Inspector Box, ‘are you listening to me? Or is your great mind preoccupied with higher things?’
He looked with amusement at the yellow-haired giant of a man sitting opposite him across the office table. It was less than a year ago that the two of them had met in dramatic and desperate circumstances in a jeweller’s shop down near the river in Garlickhythe. Since then, they had worked together on many cases, some of them of national importance. Box had originally been resentful of Knollys’ appointment; now, he couldn’t imagine working without him.
‘Sir? I was listening intently. You were telling me about the new traffic regulations for Oxford Street — or did you say Regent Street? They intend to redirect the flow along, er, whatever street it was you said, from north to south, was it? No, east to west….’
Jack Knollys’ voice trailed away in awkward embarrassment. The livid scar s
naking its way across his face showed white behind his blush.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to admit that my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about something I heard about you from a sergeant in “A”. He and I were having a glass of light ale in The Grapes….’
Sergeant Knollys gave vent to what he imagined was a delicate cough. Box jumped in alarm.
‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘is it true what this chap said, that you’ve become a convert to spiritualism? Table-rapping and all that?’
‘Who is this informant of yours?’ asked Box, in mock indignation. ‘You mustn’t believe everything you’re told, Sergeant. It’ll get you into trouble, if you do.’
‘He said that you’re going to attend a seance with their PC Lane. It doesn’t seem like you, somehow, sir, if I may say so.’
‘You may, Sergeant. It certainly isn’t my normal leisure activity. So let me tell you all about it.’
Sergeant Knollys sat in silence while Box told him about PC Lane, his bereavement, and his experiences at Back Peter Street in Soho.
‘I’m very sorry to hear all that, sir,’ said Knollys, when Box had finished his tale. ‘So you’re going to this seance to help PC Lane come to terms with his loss?’
‘I’m going, Sergeant, because I don’t like the sound of it at all. It’s a plant of some sort, I’m convinced of it, but this Mrs Pennymint will have to get up very early to put one over yours truly. She’ll find out, Jack, that Arnold Box wasn’t born yesterday.’
2
Seance in Spitalfields
The evening of the 14 July was oppressively warm, a fitting close to a day that had threatened thunder, but had produced not a drop of rain. It was still light when Inspector Box and PC Lane turned out of Leyland Street, Spitalfields, into the narrow alley where the Temple of Light was situated.
Leyland Street had been alive with people lounging aimlessly on the pavements in front of a row of pawnbrokers and slop shops, while barefoot boys larked about on the granite setts of the carriageway. The alley – it seemed not to have a name – was quieter, flanked by the premises of a furniture factory and a wholesale boot manufacturer, both closed and shuttered.
The Temple of Light stood at the end of the alley. It boasted a small classical porch, and its frontage was adorned with faded white stucco, though the sides of the building revealed the rough brick of which it was constructed. Box decided that at one time it must have been a Dissenting chapel.
A number of decent-looking men and women were mounting the steps of the temple, the door of which had been thrown open. To the left of the steps, behind railings, a placard pasted to a board announced the evening’s attractions.
THERE IS NO DEATH!
See and hear the PROOF of IMMORTALITY tonight,
at 7 o’clock.
Resident Psychic: MRS PENNYMINT
Guest Medium: MADAM SYLVESTRIS, Belsize Park.
Retiring collection.
Arthur Portman, Chairman and Secretary
As Box and Lane joined the other enquirers, a single protester, a young woman in Salvation Army uniform, handed them leaflets, upon which was printed, Brethren, Do Not Consort with Demons. Most people took a leaflet without comment, though one or two reacted angrily, snatching them from the girl’s hand and throwing them down on to the pavement.
By ten to seven, over twenty people had assembled in the temple. As Lane had mentioned, the interior was whitewashed, and flickering gaslights threw long shadows across the walls. The central space was filled with pews, presumably left in the building when its original owners had vacated it. Box and Lane slid unobtrusively into a back pew near the door.
The front of the temple was occupied by a raised platform, backed by heavy red plush curtains. A very well-dressed, rather prim man in his early forties sat at a table, looking appraisingly at the audience. His silk hat and walking-cane rested on the table, giving the impression that he had just dropped in to the temple for a few moments. In answer to a whispered question from Box, a woman sitting in the next pew informed him that this was Mr Portman, the chairman and secretary of the temple’s governing committee.
Mr Portman slid a watch from the fob pocket of his evening waistcoat, glanced at it, and then rang a small hand-bell. The audience, who had been talking in low voices, fell silent.
‘Welcome, dear brothers and sisters,’ said Portman, in a quiet but clear voice that carried to every corner of the temple. ‘We are assembled here, as always, to pull aside the veil dividing this dark and fallen world of ours from the Empire of Light, where death is no more, and evening shadows never fall. Tonight’s service will commence with a demonstration of clairaudience and clairvoyance by our beloved resident medium, Mrs Pennymint.’
He half-turned as the plush curtains parted to admit a short, plump lady in a red velvet dress adorned with a massive corsage of thornless yellow roses. Her fair hair was pulled back from her forehead, and secured behind by a velvet bow. Mrs Pennymint’s face was round, with a tendency to a double chin. Her blue eyes seemed quite guileless, and her face bore little lines of good nature around her mouth.
As the medium crossed the platform to sit down on an ornate upright chair facing the audience, two or three people moved around the temple, turning down the gaslights to a glimmer. Mr Portman lit a single candle on the table, and quietly joined the audience in the front pew.
Mrs Pennymint sat quietly, gently rocking forward and backward, a little smile on her face. Despite himself, Arnold Box felt a little shudder of apprehension. The woman was ridiculously overdressed, as though she were trying to ape a young woman of twenty when it was obvious that she was well settled into middle age. But something about that steady rocking held Box in the grip of fascination. Nobody made a sound. The gaslights hissed gently along the walls. The hair began to rise at the nape of Box’s neck.
Suddenly, there came a terrific report, as though a great weight had been dropped on the wooden floor. The medium did not flinch, and Box saw that her eyes had now closed. An echoing sound, that may have been a voice, seemed to articulate the name ‘Benvolio’ from somewhere near the back of the platform. The rocking of Mrs Pennymint’s body ceased. She spoke, and it was the kind of pleasant, friendly voice that Box had imagined.
‘Benvolio is here…. He was once an usher at the Court of Henry the Eighth, and he was burned for heresy in the days of Bloody Mary. Benvolio is my spirit guide. He says I was once a princess at a royal court. We pass through many reincarnations on our voyage to enlightenment.’
For Arnold Box the spell had been broken. This woman was spouting the usual tosh that was the stock in trade of such people. Everybody had been a princess, or a courtier, never a simple hewer of wood or drawer of water. He glanced at PC Lane, sitting beside him in the gloom, and saw the look of vexed disappointment and disgust on the young man’s face.
‘I have a John here,’ said Mrs Pennymint. ‘Will anyone own a John? He passed over quite recently.’
‘I know a John,’ said a man in the audience.
‘Don’t we all,’ muttered Box, and PC Lane’s face broke into an involuntary smile.
‘Well, this John has a message for Betsy. She is to keep smiling, he says. He’s going now…. Benvolio is showing me a dog, a black and tan, that belonged to someone called Michael. Does anyone know them?’
‘I knew a Michael,’ volunteered another man, ‘and he had a dog that was run over. But it was a golden retriever.’
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Pennymint cheerfully, ‘such a dear doggie. Michael had a message for us all. Spend your life doing good. He tries to help from the Other Side. He’s gone. They’re called away quickly, you know, when higher service demands.’
‘And we’ll go quickly, as soon as is decent,’ Box whispered, and Lane nodded his agreement.
‘And now I have a Toby,’ Mrs Pennymint continued, ‘still in this life. Benvolio is showing him to me in a cloud, which tells me that he’s still living. Toby has a message for his son, Arthur
… Albert? No, Arnold.’
‘Strewth,’ cried Arnold Box, and someone nearby bade him ‘Hush!’
‘Toby wants Arnold to know that his Uncle Cuthbert has just passed over.’
Box sighed with relief. His old Pa, Toby Box, was still recuperating at Esher from the amputation of his leg early in January. It had been a lucky guess by Mrs P., but he, Arnold Box, had no Uncle Cuthbert, of that he was quite certain.
Mrs Pennymint had not waited for an answer, but had gone on to mention other spirits who had swum into her ken, introduced by the indefatigable Tudor courtier, Benvolio. There was a Gerald, a Mary, a Peter, and a few others with conveniently simple names, so that a few more members of the audience responded with delighted recognition of their departed friends and relatives.
Then it was over. Mrs Pennymint’s eyes suddenly opened, and she moved stiffly on the chair, as though sensing for the first time how uncomfortable it was. She treated the audience to a friendly, unaffected smile, executed a rather theatrical curtsy, and left the platform to polite, subdued applause.
Mr Portman immediately resumed his place at the table. He was a narrow-faced man, with sparse black whiskers adorning his cheeks and meeting, in rather an old-fashioned way, beneath his chin. Box couldn’t quite place him socially. Was he a gentleman – he dressed like one – or a prosperous tradesman? He certainly spoke well.
The Gold Masters Page 2